We left Burgos at 8.30 with a view to stop when the bikes needed refuelling, and (taking no risks) this was about every 140 miles. We did this on the "A roads" after the cost of the Spanish toll road the previous day, an excellent choice as the roads were clear, often spectacular and less detached than the toll roads.
We headed towards Salamanca, the roads climbing up through the hills, the valleys and gorges providing a spectacular backdrop to the truck stops and industrial parks that seem to dot the countryside. Clothing choice as always is weather dependent, and our stops we altered as needed, getting colder as we climbed, in the distance the last remaining winter snows clinging to the mountains. We motored past Salamanca towards Caceres, getting the full Spanish travel brochure experience, black bulls wandering amongst the cork tree groves, destined for the bull ring or the plate. Huge white storks make their nests in manmade poles and pylons along the way. The small farms becoming less evident, giving way the open wooded pasture of the bulls, the temperature warming and the vegetation changing from the pines of the hills, to the compact gorse and scrub associated with the plains. We were chewing through the miles, our backsides getting numb at 50, sweaty at 100 and by the time we stop, there is just a dull ache between our backs and legs. Pressing on to Sevilla the machines do us proud, mile munchers, as long as we provide the unleaded. We on the other hand have been sustained by one Magnum, one Feast and a can of Coke, truly superhuman. The stint to Sevilla is long, hot and spectacular; hills undulating, our road weaving through them like a long grey ribbon draped on an unmade bed.
We headed towards Salamanca, the roads climbing up through the hills, the valleys and gorges providing a spectacular backdrop to the truck stops and industrial parks that seem to dot the countryside. Clothing choice as always is weather dependent, and our stops we altered as needed, getting colder as we climbed, in the distance the last remaining winter snows clinging to the mountains. We motored past Salamanca towards Caceres, getting the full Spanish travel brochure experience, black bulls wandering amongst the cork tree groves, destined for the bull ring or the plate. Huge white storks make their nests in manmade poles and pylons along the way. The small farms becoming less evident, giving way the open wooded pasture of the bulls, the temperature warming and the vegetation changing from the pines of the hills, to the compact gorse and scrub associated with the plains. We were chewing through the miles, our backsides getting numb at 50, sweaty at 100 and by the time we stop, there is just a dull ache between our backs and legs. Pressing on to Sevilla the machines do us proud, mile munchers, as long as we provide the unleaded. We on the other hand have been sustained by one Magnum, one Feast and a can of Coke, truly superhuman. The stint to Sevilla is long, hot and spectacular; hills undulating, our road weaving through them like a long grey ribbon draped on an unmade bed.
Sevilla is known for its oranges, hence the miles of orange groves that hug the road, the bulls being left on the plains, with the storks. We are in a mode now, pushing, pushing towards that first glimpse of the Med or the Rock – it's actually a long way away. Stopping outside Sevilla in a small yet somehow atmospheric bar located next to garage, carwash and petrol station, we sat having a well earned cerveza, contemplating the next bit. A coach load of young girls chatter away on their mobiles in the parking area, some of them paying an interest in the bikes, very giggly they give us a wave, I make the decision for our group (due to 35 year age gap) not to pursue their clearlyamorous intent. We move on; their fantasy unsatisfied.
Jerez beckons, a town where we might get tyres changed, find a bed etc, before to final European bit down to Algeciras and then Morocco. On we go, searching for the elusive hotel with parking, after 720 miles (approx) our backsides are in need of respite, rest is needed. Yet, dear reader one cruel twist awaits - da, da, da klunk (that would be a wheel bearing being knackered). Lars grinds to a halt – wheel off; assessed; we are going nowhere else soon; phone calls made; Carole Nash (or her personal assistant) spring into action, 'Spaniard' with flat bed arrives, we think he is a good bloke, he doesn't speak English. He takes the bike and Lars to an industrial plot 'somewhere' we follow on the bikes (no idea where we are) Phone calls made, seems to being sorted, the bike will be fixed/ moved to be fixed tomorrow. A hotel bed/ food becomes a priority, 'bikers cannot live by an ice cream alone' as they say. After following the 'Spaniard' through the cobbled streets of Jerez risking life, limb and the wrath of the local coppers, we arrive at our salubrious accommodation. It's cheap, there is secure parking for the bikes, and Carole has kindly said she will pay, but still no idea where we are, but we are OK. The breakdown would have been really serious if it had been in Morocco.
We need food, local pub is open (11pm) and serving food. We dine on the largest steak I have ever had; an inch thick and covering half the plate, served on a ceramic plate sizzling hot, that continues to cook the food as we eat it. Nice salad, beer to wash it down. Tomorrow the business of sorting the bike will begin.
Mileage: ~ 550
At least you got 550 miles under your belt before the breakdown. Soon be mended and you'll be back on your way boys!
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